The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

I couldn’t take a shit without the paparazzi wanting to film it.

The night of the draft, I’d been in the expensive, fancy suit my agent had bought me, sweating bullets as the studio's lights where they filmed it shined down on everyone in the room—the college players, their agents, and families.

My parents hadn’t made it. New York had been too far to travel for my father, who’d recently been hospitalized from complications from the flu. When Don Bacchus, the NFL Commissioner, announced my name as the first pick for Colorado, no one was more surprised than me.

I knew they were picking me, but at the same time, I wasn’t. It was a pipe dream. I was about to become one of the big men on TV that little kids fantasized about. That was going to be my life.

I did not call my parents.

I did not call my best friend.

I called Penelope.

I called her after twelve long, silent months. I wanted her to know I’d made it—we had made it. That I’d accomplished what she and I had planned for me to do. That the best team in the league wanted me. After the photographs and the smiling and Mr. Bacchus moved on to the next pick of the draft, I’d stolen away and called Penelope from a small room I’d found.

She hadn’t answered.

Hadn’t returned my texts.

Why?

Why.

Rising from the couch, I’m frustrated and suddenly a ball of energy.

Kevin follows me, and I feel guilty for waking him from his cozy snuggles, the burden of following his human on one of my daily quests. He sits when I go into the kitchen.

He follows me into the bathroom.

He follows me back into the kitchen, wanting to nap but living with the ever-present fear of missing out.

I pat him on the head as I stand next to the counter, mindlessly looking through the large, panoramic windows with a view of the city outside.

“…the kid looked just like you.”

“…the kid looked just like you.”

It couldn’t have been…

Penelope wouldn’t have paraded her around if she was.

That was not my kid.

That was not.

My.

Kid.

Is it a coincidence that Harper’s nickname is Skipper? I wander back to the sofa but don’t sit down, confusing Kevin, who is half up, half down on the cushions. ‘Are we staying or going?’ his big puppy dog eyes ask.

The Skip.

Skipper.

Way too coincidental.

If Penelope wanted nothing to do with me, then why would she give her kid a name that’s the same as the person you want out of your life?

Skipper.

Skip.

“…the kid looked just like you.”

Fuck.

She did look just like me. She did. Even I could see that, and I know nothing about children.

Why did she bring her to the game?

She didn’t know she was going to see you, idiot. She was trying to do something nice for her daughter.

My hand rubs at the back of my neck, the tension there growing by the second. Instead of getting answers from Penelope, I have nothing but more questions.

Shit.

Fuck.

I’m tempted to call her, or text, or video chat, but a knot is forming in my stomach.

You have a bye week, Jack—no game on the horizon—you could fly back and find out. It’s true. I do. Plenty of time to land back on her soil and sort this out.

“I’m sorry, bud. It looks like I’m going to have to leave again.” Kevin whines as if he understands the words coming out of my mouth. “I’d love for you to come with?” His ears perk up. “But this is official business.”

His ears go down.

He can fly— of course, he can. I’ve taken him on planes before and he’s a rockstar traveler, especially if I’m not flying commercial.

“Next time. I promise. ” I walk toward the bedroom, the dog trailing me, and this time, he gives up and jumps onto the bed, curling up. Then he just watches me as I go through my nightly routine of washing my face, brushing my teeth, and throwing on pajamas.

A few minutes later, I climb in under the covers, tuck my arms behind my head, and lace my fingers together.

In the morning, I’ll get this sorted.

I just hope Penelope isn’t horrified by another visit, but I have to know. I have got to get rid of this nagging feeling in my stomach and the tightness forming in my chest.

“She’s cute. Where’d you find her?”

Penelope shrugs nonchalantly. “Oh you know, by the churro stand upstairs.”

“By the churro stand!” Skipper giggles loudly. “Mom, you found me at the hospital!”

She’s cute, and she looks just like me.

Chapter 7

Penelope

“Who is Jack Jennings to you, Penn?”

I’m in my own kitchen, minding my own business, when my brother butts in. Making himself at home, he pulls out a stool at the counter and plops down.

“You know who Jack is, Davis. He’s an ex-boyfriend.”

He’s quiet for a few minutes while I put dinner together. “I’ve always given you your privacy where Skipper is concerned. I figured you would eventually tell me who her father was, and I figured you had your reasons for…withholding the information.”